The following day, Mae came to Brama and asked if he would return to scouting with her and a squad of the Damned who’d been assigned to her.
He waved to the two guardsmen standing nearby. “How can I? I’m being watched.”
“I request for you to join us. My queen grant it.” She bowed her head to him, a gesture that was both sincere and filled with hope. “Please. I don’t wish for more asirim to come, to reach camp.”
Brama had little else to do, and in all sincerity didn’t wish for the asirim to reach the camp either. So he nodded and left that morning with Mae and a dozen other qirin warriors. Their mood was understandably heavy; they had all trained with Shu-fen for years. But they were stoic warriors, and seemed filled with purpose, eager to deliver vengeance for their fallen comrade against the asirim, or the Sharakhani fleet, should they arrive.
Juvaan Xin-Lei decided to join them too. He rode a plain-looking stallion with a patchwork coat. His ivory armor was beyond its prime but still more than serviceable. And he seemed at ease with it, and with the well-worn sword, a red-tassled dao, at his belt. Warring with the rest of his garb was the conical reed farmer’s hat he wore instead of a helm. It was old and weather-stained, the sort of hat that would be changed over every few seasons; this one had withstood the test of time, however. The full effect made Juvaan look like one of the famed warrior poets who, after tiring of a life of war, wandered the mountains of Mirea in search of enlightenment.
Juvaan’s gaze occasionally drifted toward Brama’s mare, Kweilo—or more accurately, Brama soon discovered, to the way he sat the saddle. “If you don’t mind my saying, Lord Brama, you don’t look very comfortable with reins in your hands.”
“No, never have been.” Brama patted Kweilo’s neck, sorry that she’d been paired with such a poor rider.
A sly grin overcame Juvaan. “Is that why we found you walking in the desert?”
Brama laughed. “Sadly, yes. Rümayesh gifted me with the finest akhala the desert has ever seen, but I rode the poor beast into the sand.”
“A pity,” Juvaan said.
“A pity, indeed. And you? Do you enjoy them?”
He looked down at his mount. “Let’s just say there’s a reason I remained in Sharakhai for so long.”
“Your hatred of horses?”
Juvaan shifted in his saddle and grimaced. “My love of a life free of saddle sores.”
They laughed and rode in silence for a time, but as they headed up the incline of a knobby hill, Juvaan asked, “Have we done something to offend your lady?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
Juvaan nodded in a friendly manner. “Do you know where lady Rümayesh has gone?”
Brama steered Kweilo onto a less rocky path. “As I’ve said, she didn’t tell me.”
“Of course, though I will admit to some confusion. Why do you suppose she would have left without telling her most trusted servant?”
Precisely what I’d like to know, Brama thought. “I’ve learned that it’s wisest to let Rümayesh come and go as she pleases with no questions asked, although I rather think it has something to do with the ehrekh that visited the queen in her pavilion the other night.”
Brama was good at reading people, but he had to admit Juvaan masked his emotions well. He exhibited no embarrassment over his queen being caught speaking to another ehrekh, nor anger at being surprised and challenged by a foreigner. But his protracted silence proved he hadn’t known Brama was aware of it. “Behlosh’s arrival was unexpected, though not unwelcome.”
“Behlosh has agreed to help the queen as well?”
Juvaan shrugged. “He has yet to make his decision known.”
“And his reward?”
Juvaan turned and stared with those icy eyes of his. “I thought Sharakhani were more direct.”
“Fine. Your queen promised Rümayesh a reliquary with the bone of the old god.”
“My queen promised her a bone of the old god.”
Brama blinked several times. “Your queen found more than one.”
Juvaan said nothing as they came to the hill’s summit and dismounted. They stared south across a desert overcast with the sort of clouds that teased rain but would likely boil off by afternoon. As Brama stared over the endless dunes he wondered if the wavering curtain along the horizon would soon part for the Kings’ fleet. The attack by the obscured asirim still confused him. Only a handful had been sent. Were they meant to be assassins? Somehow Brama doubted it, but he had no better explanation.
“You’ll forgive me for saying it, I hope, but treating with two ehrekh is madness. Using the bones of the old ones in payment makes it doubly so.” Those bones were the sort of thing the ehrekh would stop at nothing to obtain. Even the gods of the desert coveted them.
“I leave such things to my queen. What we need from you are assurances that Rümayesh will return and finish what she’s started.”
“She’ll return when she returns,” Brama said. “As for the rest . . .” Brama lapsed into silence, feeling every bit as impotent as Juvaan.
“Might she have been summoned by her lord?” Juvaan ventured.
By her lord? What on earth was Juvaan talking about? “Rümayesh has no lord.” But then Brama understood, and his fingers, so often numb from the abuse they’d taken, started to tingle. There was only one being that might hold the title of lord over a creature like Rümayesh. Goezhen, god of chaos, god of demons, god of shadows and covetous urges.
As the implications began to roll over him, another thought occurred to Brama. “Did Behlosh come as a herald of Goezhen?”
Something most strange happened then. Color came to Juvaan’s cheeks. He was embarrassed, Brama realized. He’d been a diplomat once, a good one from what Brama had heard of him, and he’d just given Brama clues as to Behlosh’s nature while receiving nothing in return for it.
“Is he, Juvaan?”
But Juvaan would be pushed no further on the subject. Brama didn’t need his confirmation, though. His silence spoke volumes. What worried him more was the inevitable conclusion: the god of chaos had come to play in the desert.
Brama and Juvaan saw no signs of the asirim that day. Nor did Mae and her squad of the Damned. They spotted no ships along the horizon, either. The day’s excitement came only when they returned to camp. There was a commotion near the hospital ship. On the sand near the ship’s gangplank, several of Queen Alansal’s generals were speaking with three of the servants who tended to the patients. Juvaan rode forward at a brisk pace and joined them.
Mae, riding her qirin alongside Brama, glanced at him warily, as if she suspected him of wrongdoing, then she kicked her mount into a faster pace, following Juvaan as the rest of the Damned rode their qirin toward the far end of the encampment.
When Brama arrived, the generals were heading up the gangplank. Juvaan followed, waving for Brama to accompany him. A hollow of dread had formed in Brama’s gut on seeing the generals and the anxious looks on their faces, and each step he took in Juvaan’s wake chiseled it out just a little bit more, so that by the time they reached the infirmary, he was queasy with it. In the center of the long room lay a young man, the physic with the kindly smile, the one who’d helped Brama when he’d first arrived. Next to him, lying in another cot, was the old woman, the physic who tended to the Damned. They were both awake and resting, but dread filled their eyes. The eyes of the old woman turned angry when she saw Brama. The young man, however, still looked at him in a kindly way. A small amount of hope seemed to mingled with his fears. He began to cough a moment later.
Both had sallow skin. There were notes of a gray, ashy color around their eyes and lips and nostrils. One of the physic’s nurses, normally a reserved woman, was speaking to the generals in a strained, high-pitched tone. She pulled back the young physic’s lower lip to reveal gums the color of rotted fruit.
A pall
fell over the gathering. Many took a step back; Brama doubted they even realized they were doing it. These men and women were accustomed to war, but there was little that robbed one of courage like seeing death at the hands of disease.
Juvaan looked like the desert had just been turned upside down. “What do you know of this?”
Brama shook his head. “What would I know of such things?”
Juvaan translated, after which a rush of conversation followed, with some of the generals pointing to Brama. “You were cut as deeply as Shu-fen, yet you escaped the infection.” He waved a hand to Brama’s midsection. “They’re now wondering why.”
“How would I bloody know?” Brama didn’t like where this was headed. He didn’t like it at all.
Juvaan chose not to translate Brama’s response. “They’ll want a better explanation than that.”
“They’re aware that I heal quickly. It’s likely proof against the infection.”
“They also know that your mistress granted you power. And that your mistress is now gone.”
“The asirim dealt those wounds to Shu-fen!” Brama said.
“And Rümayesh was close at hand.”
“If you think Rümayesh somehow caused this, then you’re a bloody fool.” Brama looked to the generals. “You’re all bloody fools.”
Juvaan bowed his head, a gesture Brama found somehow infuriating. “Please. The generals are only asking prudent questions, questions you would want asked were you in their shoes.”
“The asirim dealt those wounds,” Brama said again, “and the Kings sent the asirim.” He waved toward the stricken physics. “They wanted this to happen.” Brama never thought he would defend a creature like Rümayesh, but in this he felt confident. He’d felt no workings of magic from her at the time. She had nothing to do with this.
But if that was so, a little voice inside him said, why did she leave? Why hasn’t she returned?
Juvaan’s wintry eyes stared into Brama’s. He looked like a man on the cusp of a difficult decision. Anyone else, anyone not protected by Rümayesh, would likely have been thrown into the brig of one of their dunebreakers, or tortured until they told the truth. But the likelihood of vengeance upon Rümayesh’s return was simply too great.
Juvaan worked his jaw, then nodded crisply. “Go,” he said, “but remain in camp.” Then he turned to the generals, all but ignoring Brama. A conversation that began in calm tones quickly became heated as Brama left.
Over the following day, another five were discovered with similar symptoms to Shu-fen, including two of the generals. The day after that, over a dozen more were delivered to the hospital ship. “The scourge,” they were calling it, and already there were whispers that the gods of the desert had come to destroy the invading fleet.
Chapter 17
ÇEDA WATCHED IN WONDER as Amile expanded his tattoo on Jenise’s back. He worked for the entire day, the Shieldwives erecting a sunshade to shelter them. Only twice were they interrupted, both times to bring Jenise food, to give her a chance to relieve herself beyond the oasis. But then she returned and sat while Amile continued. When the sun set, Amile returned to the huddle of asirim while Jenise returned to the fire where she’d lain the previous night with Auvrey. She spoke little and ate sparingly. She was acting like one does when they see death for the first time, though Çeda knew good and well Jenise had sent dozens to their graves and seen many more die. When Jenise finally laid herself down to sleep, it was with Auvrey at a noticeable distance, the two of them holding hands as she fell asleep.
Amile continued his tattoo throughout the next day. Again Jenise showed extreme patience, sitting still for long hours with few breaks while Amile added more to his design. Finally, just past high sun on the third day of the work, Amile stopped. With furrows of clouds raking their way across the sky, he set the needle and striking stick aside, wiped the excess ink from Jenise’s skin, and sat with his knees pulled to his chest, simply staring at what he’d done.
When Çeda approached, Sümeya, Melis, and Auvrey followed. Amile shifted uncomfortably on the sand and pushed himself away from Jenise like a boy caught stealing bread. His eyes shifted between the tattoo and the approaching women, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be there when they saw it or not. In the end, he stood and bounded over the dunes on all fours, sand kicking up behind him as he went. He wailed, a long, warbling bray, and headed not for the other asirim, but toward open sand. Soon he was but a dark speck in the distance.
In a way, Çeda was glad to see him go. He needed time to adjust. Time to grieve over all the memories he’d been forced to dredge up. Time to consider his new future with Jenise. He was a complete cypher to Çeda now. Her bond with him had been severed, replaced by one with Jenise that was every bit as strong as Çeda’s had been with Kerim—stronger, even. Amile recognized how close he’d been to losing himself entirely, and how crucial Jenise’s offer had been to returning his sanity.
Jenise waited as they came, allowing them all to see Amile’s story. It was nothing like Sümeya’s work, or Leorah’s, or Zaïde’s. It was done by an inexpert hand. It was sloppy. Some of the images Çeda could hardly recognize. And there were few words. But the sheer power in it . . . The central image was of a man holding a child up to the sun. Beneath that image, around it, were thorns. Blood. Darkness. They hemmed the man and child in. Trapped them. The most common image in the dark border was people. Sometimes faces. Sometimes figures in the night. Sometimes only eyes or mouths or hands or feet.
They were his victims, Çeda realized. The men and women, sometimes children, that Amile had been forced to murder and deliver to the blooming fields to feed the twisted trees.
Auvrey knelt by Jenise’s side, describing what she saw. Jenise hadn’t seen it, of course—she’d been the canvas—but when Jenise dropped her head into her hands and began to cry, Çeda realized she’d known. She’d felt those images as Amile had pressed them into her skin. Not once had she broken down during Amile’s hours of effort, but now she was wracked, inconsolable with grief.
Auvrey, with the care and devotion of a mother for her child, applied salve to Jenise’s back, wrapped bandages around her chest, then guided Jenise’s arms back into the sleeves of her dress. Leorah led Jenise away, the two of them retiring alone to Wadi’s Gait.
“And now?” asked Auvrey.
The Shieldwives huddled close. They’d all known the purpose of Jenise’s tattoos, and now, clearly, it was their turn.
“You begin in the morning,” Çeda said. “All of you.”
Auvrey glanced at the others, then bowed her head in reverence. “If it’s all the same to you, Çedamihn, we’d like to begin now.”
Çeda was taken aback. She’d thought they might still have reservations. “You’ve all spoken?”
Auvrey bowed her head again. “All of us. Jenise included.”
Çeda couldn’t help but think of Sümeya’s counsel: We cannot risk more than a week, she’d said, and she was very likely right. “We’ll begin tonight, but not everyone. It’s too much emotion all at once.” Çeda cast her gaze over the Shieldwives. With Ramela gone and Jenise bonded, there were fifteen left. “Six can begin today. If all goes well, the others can start in the morning.”
Soon enough the six had been chosen and were standing in a line. One by one they called to the asirim, as Jenise had, and the asirim came. They were in awe as much as the women were. Their rage still burned, but a hope had been kindled beside it. They were so eager to tell their tales that many yowled or yipped like hyena pups. Some even rolled on the sand.
That Natise came first was no surprise. He’d been an innocent in life and was perhaps the most human left among them. To Çeda’s complete surprise, Sedef was next. He seemed as eager as the rest—perhaps more eager after having lost his tongue—to see his story written, even in so ephemeral a form as a tattoo. Three more followed, and the last were Huu
ri and Imwe, twin boys, Mavra’s grandchildren. They made their way shyly to a single Shieldwife: Sirendra, a lithe gazelle of a woman. Each of them took one of her hands. There were others like the twins, two or sometimes three who were especially close and didn’t want to be parted, who joined to a single Shieldwife.
In fits and starts, the asirim began to craft their tattoos. Some, like Jenise’s, were placed on the Shieldwife’s back. Others already had tattoos there and offered their legs instead, or their chest and stomach, or their arms or neck. The asir sometimes merged their designs with the older tattoos, or confined them to a single space. The twins started theirs on the tops of Sirendra’s feet, and did so cruelly at times, striking the needle harder than they needed to, each glancing at Sirendra as if they enjoyed every ounce of pain they were giving. Sirendra took it all stoically, hugging her legs and giving the boys the freedom they needed. Eventually the boys slowed their movements, then stared numbly at Sirendra as tears streamed down her cheeks. They moved with care after that, tapping their needles only as hard as was necessary, giving Sirendra time to rest between sessions.
Some were skilled in the art, but most, as had been true of Amile, possessed little skill and less precision, making the images blurry and broken. But it wasn’t the final rendering that mattered; it was how deeply they sung the song of their life while forming their tattoo, and how closely the Shieldwife listened to it. The images were powerful and painful, but also purifying. And the Shieldwives lived their pain, making their bonds that much stronger.
“Goezhen’s sweet kiss,” Sümeya said near sunset, “the horrors they’ve seen.”
Çeda was left speechless. It wasn’t just the sheer volume of pain that made her feel sick to her stomach, but the creativity the asirim had shown in inflicting it.
Çeda surveyed the field of women and asirim around her. “Where’s Melis?” she asked. “She should see this.”
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 18